


The trail behind us

by Ruta



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Male-Female Friendship, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: In London, in the traditional and refined and eclectic London, four people are living a crucial moment of their lives - two of them have a vague perception of it, the remaining two aren’t even scratched by the possibility that the circumstance is occurring.Two men, a woman and two bags fatally similar, almost indistinguishable.Two crashes.[Potterlock Sherlolly - Set inFantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.]





	

"Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."  

**Ralph Waldo Emerson**

 

In London, in the traditional and refined and eclectic London, four people are living a crucial moment of their lives - two of them have a vague perception of it, the remaining two aren’t even scratched by the possibility that the circumstance is occurring.

Three of them are engaged in a rapid succession of fortuitous sync on the steps of access within the BoE. The fourth, although not far from the City, at that time is pledging to submit to the hard bigotry of a sexist boss (she’s not very good at it and, somehow, the laces of Mr. Ricoletti patent leather shoes are tied together in mysterious and magical ways, end up with him upside down).

A petite woman, pointy face, cheeky nose and long hair tied in a ponytail, is listening gravely at the propaganda speech that a lady dressed in black is keeping from the stone pedestal on which she installed herself like a preacher; the fear and doubt that her words impregnated with hatred instill in the minds of the small crowd that trooped around her and which pays attention to the horror story that she has concocted for the occasion.

A tall man, prominent cheekbones, an unruly forest of jet black curls and an expensive winter coat, attends the sermon with a frown, but a flash of irritation crosses his stormy eyes when laying it on the child who, at the foot of the column, observes with downcast eyes the ground and has in his arms the massive contingent of flyers that he will have to distribute at the end of the farce devoid of all reason.

Another man, blond and visibly exhausted, proceeds laboriously in the besieging crowd, clutching an old brown leather doctor's bag to his chest. His pace is limp, but his posture is that of a soldier and his expression is grim and fierce and somewhat desperate.  

Two men, a woman and two bags fatally similar, almost indistinguishable.  

Two crashes.  

 _The first._ Shoved to the side, the woman falls on him because of the rudeness of others. In an involuntary reflex, Sherlock grabs her before she falls. His hand closes easily around her shoulder, so small and thin that it seems that of a young girl. The scent that tickles his nostrils has something of vaguely exotic and wild, is not what one would expect from an exponent of the fairer sex - _the smell of dew on meadows right before dawn, Chinese spices and perhaps cloves._ His fingers betray a thrill when she raises her head and mumbles a little heartfelt thanks. She appears immersed in her own thoughts, her dark eyes staring at his face without really seeing him. It isn’t more than an instant; the next she is already moving away. It is an accidental bump, yet he finds himself chasing with suspicion the profile in bold colors of her as something snaps inside him and a sudden light of recognition goes on inside his memory.

 _The second._ John swears when he stumbles into a bag and blinks while, getting up with a smile atrophied from disuse, he spoke words of apology to the owner of the bag in question. The owner is a woman and she is wearing the most improbable jumble of mismatched colors on which he has ever laid eyes. He does not know what intrigues him most: if the scarf with black and pink stripes or the canary yellow coat or the red shoes. Perhaps it is the sum of anachronistic and unusual details or perhaps to catch his interest are the long hair and the mystery that seems to hide behind her gentle smile. John straightens his shoulders and gives her the back, heading quickly towards the entrance of the bank. His appointment, after all, will help to determine the direction that his life will take from that day forward. 

* * *

While she’s sitting on the bench, Molly continues to peer nervously at the corners of the atrium, looking for her feline friend on the run. 

The man next to her, the same one that has stumbled in her bag a few minutes before in front of the access steps, misunderstands the cause of her anxiety. When he breaks the ice asking why she is there, obviously convinced that it is for an appointment with one of the directors, she turns to respond with a polite smile: "For your same reason." 

The man's eyebrows collide in a frown of amazement and confusion. "To open a clinic?" 

Molly would laugh heartily at his expression if the situation was not desperately complicated. He seems a nice guy, friendly manners and an expansive character, a quality of flattery that is pleasant and not annoying like that of some fatuous seducers. 

When she grasps the silhouette of Toby beneath a cart that an employee is carrying towards a lift only intended for the workers and which leads to the lower floors of collection, she spring up in the direction in which she glimpsed him. In the rush she does not notice that she had left behind an egg or that the blond man is calling her for pointing it out. 

* * *

Mr. Sebastian Wilkes is impeccable in his charcoal gray suit. He’s a businessman through and through with his slicked-back hair, white shirt starched to perfection, the tie clips and cufflinks silver cuffs. 

The way he exposes the reasons why it was decided to refuse the loan he has requested, despite the recommendations of their customer's trust and shareholder, Dr. Mike Stamford of the prestigious Hospital St. Bartholomew, is concise and pragmatic, but there is a greasy and provocative undertone that does not go unnoticed by John. 

He dismisses the man without a real greeting and doesn’t shake his hand. 

The egg begins to hatch in his pocket as soon as he steps out of the office. He looks around, hoping to find the woman with the yellow coat and give it back. He eyes her, on the other side of the atrium, opposite the golden gates of the counter positions of the clerks in charge of relationship with the public. 

He waves his arms to attract her attention and, although visibly distracted, in the end she notices him. 

She pulls out from an inside coat pocket a long thin object that looks like a candy cane and suddenly he finds himself to walk the entire distance separating them as if an invisible force is dragging him toward her, like he is a piece of iron and she’s a magnet.

The last thing John knows is that the egg hatched in the palm of her hand, a kind of snake-eel of a blue opalescent came out and that the woman is watching him with the loving expression that a mother reserves to her child.

Then chaos breaks out... Being accused of robbing the bank without actually stealing anything, armed security guards, the crazy woman who grabs him, disappear and reappear in a side alley with his head that seems to overflow like a river in full for too much contrasting information and the stomach rebels against the absurdity of the situation. 

The woman is kneeling and is arguing with a certain 'Toby' which can be none other than the cat-lynx that they chased up to the _caveau_ , shakes him by the collar and puts him firmly in the old leather bag. 

When she turns around, offering her full consideration and placing her hands on his shoulders to look him straight in the face with a kind of severe solemnity, John dodges her with bad grace, grabbing the doctor's bag and runs away as if anew retrace the battlefield to return behind the trench. 

* * *

Molly brushes the back of the coat and watches the front of her dress, in search of any damage. Meanwhile, she tries to work out a solution to save the correctable. The man is now just a blonde head in an endless multitude of identical heads. She bends to pick up the unusually silent bag, murmuring words of reassurance and warning.

At that very moment the figure of a tall, elegant man emerges at the mouth of the alley, appearing out of nowhere. She inhales through her nose loudly, shakes her head and decided to try to overcome him with ease. When she is certain to have got away, though, he grabs her by the elbow and together they disappear in the undertow of the _Disapparition_. 

* * *

They appear on the sidewalk of the _War Office_.

Sherlock Holmes, this is the grumpy man's name, escort her rudely through the revolving doors and then to the clanking elevator, probably avoiding yank her more out of boredom than for real gallantry. In her ears still rings his lecture on countless break-ins that she transgressed and that he listed as the charges of a crashed.

Molly follows him, furious and recalcitrant, with no other choice. Any resistance would be futile, he assured with a cool smile. 

"Hi, Shezza!" 

Sherlock gives a subtle nod to the lanky goblin in the elevator, pushing her inside. "Good morning, Bill." 

Bill observes her with blatant curiosity and his gaze lingers on the hand that Sherlock has placed on her back, at the height of the kidneys. "So," grins with a mischievous look, "she's your girlfriend? Bill Wiggins," he introduces himself, "but I prefer 'The Wig'. It is what they call me." 

Molly, who tactfully pretended to not notice the flamboyant toupee that Bill wears, now cannot avoid the temptation of a discreet peek. 

"Do not mind him," Sherlock says through clenched teeth, and then, turning to Bill: "She's not my girlfriend. She’s in custody. I'm taking her to the Major Investigation Department.”

Bill shakes his head. "They will not let you in, you know. Not after the scandal of what happened with the case of the Bruhl kids." 

"They will make an exception," Sherlock interrupts him peremptorily and if he were not so arrogant Molly would feel a sudden motion of solidarity because she thinks she has finally figured out what's going on. She isn’t a scapegoat, but an attempt to get back into the good graces of someone. Of whose, however, remains to be seen. 

* * *

Invited to leave from the Madame President, Lady Elisabeth Smallwood, Molly finds herself retracing in reverse the journey with Sherlock. 

The lift, this time empty and less rattling, opens its doors on a kind of cubbyhole, windowless and cluttered with paperwork summarily arranged in floating files, archives and siphons which branch at regular intervals from the low ceiling. It looks like a boiler room. The rhythmic sound of typewriters is deafening. 

Molly follows Sherlock to his desk, burdened by architectural origami and faithful reproductions of Escher's paintings made with the paper. She tilts her head to one side and tries to not smile, pointing to the paper miniatures. "Bad day, was it?" 

With a diligent movement of the wand and a grim, Sherlock undoes the origami which revert to square sheets of different bright colors and are grouped in neat piles in the binders to the sides of the desk. 

Molly’s smile extinguishes in a moment. She doesn’t understand this man, his insufferable temperament, morose and taciturn. It's like running into an iceberg of which is visible only the tip of the diamond, which under the icy surface of the water hides the enigma of its true shape.

It is very likely that he knows that she has lied to him about the reasons that have convinced her to go to London. He must have deduced it. There is no other explanation for the suspicion that hardens his eyes and the line of his mouth. 

With another fluid movement of the wand, Sherlock levitates the stack of books that occupied the chair, in an unequivocal invitation - implicit order - to sit. And so, surrounded by copper pipes that spew out weird origami of animals, Molly, in spite of herself, suffers the ignominy of a second interrogation. 

* * *

There is a further incident, and has to do with a man even more unsympathetic than Sherlock. When Sherlock hears his coming, screaming loudly his name, he murmurs softly an unrepeatable curse. 

"Holmes!" 

"Anderson," Sherlock greets him in a tone that leaves very little to the imagination. It is evident that he cordially detest this man and does not bother to hide it. On the contrary, the bitter and acrimonious smile with which he accepted his arrival is a clear invitation to return from where he came, and to leave him alone. 

"Holmes, if you really believe to keep doing your affair undisturbed when you have been entrusted to my supervision-" The man puts a stop to his tirade, noticing Molly’s presence for the first time. "And who is she?" He asks, crabby. "What's she doing in my department?" 

Molly flutters her eyelashes and smiles angelically. Above Anderson’s head, Sherlock gives her a significant hint of warning. She'd like to say that in the few minutes that preceded the appearance of Anderson, she and Sherlock have come to a kind of understanding, but it is not so. Molly considers him one of the most annoying and rude men that she has ever met, and despite his obvious intelligence, one in a million, complex and multifaceted as quicksilver, the antithesis of his bad disposition makes him attractive as the prospect of a game of Gobstones (not a compliment since she is a bad, _bad_ player).

Sure, his beauty is undeniable, she finds herself thinking sincerely. Rangy, with a towering height and with those eyes of unparalleled color between green and blue, it's no wonder that, despite everything, she find him attractive. And although half the time he opens his mouth he does to say horrible things, they also indisputably _true_ and denote a certain acumen. 

"Miss Hooper," Sherlock introduces her with presence of mind in front of her prolonged silence. "She is a Magizoologist." 

Anderson does not seem particularly impressed by the information. "That does not explain what she is doing in my department," he retorts. 

Sherlock makes a face and Molly is tempted to do the same. It has not gone unnoticed to her that Sherlock is amply reciprocated in his animosity nor the manner in which Anderson has stressed the word 'my'. It is not surprising that Sherlock has the face of someone who has just swallowed a gulp of Skele-gro. Who could ever aspire to the post of Head of Wand Permit Office? Anderson, evidently, above all if the job allows him to have a post of higher grade than Sherlock’s and rule the roost, making the good and the bad weather.  

"Well?" Anderson crosses his arms over his thin chest, daring him with flaming eyes and hostile. "I am waiting for an explanation, Holmes." 

"As I am too," intrudes listlessly a hoarse voice behind her, and before turning to check the identity of the newcomer, Molly observes Sherlock’s face lighten and the smug smile that pins on his lips. Anderson seems to deflate like a balloon punctured by a needle. 

"Lestrade," Sherlock welcomes him and his voice is almost friendly. The way in which they face each other speaks of a confidential relationship, of camaraderie and mutual respect, even if she is ready to swear that Sherlock would never admit it. 

The man has salt and pepper hair and although stylish, he wears his clothes with the sloppy disregard of a teenager who is growing into it. His smile is exhausted, his eyes heavily circled by shadows of sleep deprived.

Molly recognizes him as one of the Auror who were present in the Major Investigation Department, the only one who really listened to what Sherlock had to say and not fake politely, the only one who, when Madam Smallwood sent them away, followed them with his eyes, showing a look of understanding and regret. 

Sherlock talks of a bizarre creature that she'd smuggled illegally on British soil and the commotion it caused in the Bank of England; speaks with certainty of her journey to the Land of the Rising Sun, even though she is pretty sure of not having mentioned it. He speaks and the fatigue on Lestrade’s gray face sharpens, as if crished by an intolerable burden.

"We can see the creature, then," he says at the end of the report and Sherlock looks like an iguana from Guatemala. 

Before she can avoid it, he takes - steals - the bag and with blatant gestures he opens it.

The expression of the presents changes dramatically: that of Anderson writhes in one of malignant satisfaction; that of Lestrade in one puzzled that soon gives way to disappointment; that of Sherlock is a frustrated one; that of Molly is one of horror for the tremendously problematic implications that the new discovery entails. 

Because her bag is not _her_ bag and the interior does not guard the precious cargo of her magical creatures, but a standard set of medical instruments. 

_Oh, for all the Hippogriffs!_

  

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're wondering about. You are there, behind your monitor, and you are reflecting on lost time and a billion of questions along the same lines. What have I just read? In short, what happened is this. Two weeks ago I saw for the first time "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them". At that time I was writing a couple of Sherlolly stories, the characters were so fixed in my imagination that, while enjoying the film (truly amazing), my thoughts returned continually and stubbornly to them. I thought and thought, and I began to fantasize (and yes, when I start to do it, the damage is insured) about a possible crossover which then became rather a transposition of the film with complete replacement of the characters and the setting. If it was not clear, here is a brief summary of the exchanges that took place:
> 
> Newt Scamander: Molly Hooper
> 
> Tina Goldstein: Sherlock Holmes
> 
> Jacob Kowalski: John Watson
> 
> Queenie Goldstein: Mary Morstan
> 
> For the others, I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait for the next chapters. I will not spoil the surprise ;)
> 
> As always I cross the fingers, hoping that this bungled attempt was after all something pleasant to read and that I have stolen from you a smile. Greetings to all of you, I wish you an adventurous week!


End file.
